John Connor: Capeless Crusader
by Chris St Thomas
Summary: Crusader AU. Ch 1-8, 'The Case of the Falling Girl' Why did Jordan jump from the roof? What will John and Cameron do about it when they find out? Ch 9, "I've got Computer Crimes on speed dial," the Cop said. "Quick as u breach firewalls, u got a record
1. The Falling Girl

Disclaimer -- My thanks to James Cameron, Gale Ann Hurd, Jonathan Mostow, Mario Kassar and Andrew Vanja for creating the sandbox and letting me play in it.

A/N -- A note about the timing of this story. This entire story unfolds during the events of Episodes 2 and 3, from when Jordan jumps to the night after Sarah burns the Turk. I think the show right now is little bit too serious and dark. Also, I'm trying to reconcile the very human seeming Cameron we met at the beginning of Episode 1 with the very clunky and robotic Cameron we saw in Episodes 2 - 5. Think of this story as the moments of humor and closeness that would have been included in Episodes 2 and 3 if they had been 90 min or 2 hr episodes instead of 1 TV hour.

My name is John. John Reese. John Thomson. John Clark. John Connor. John Rousseau. John Welch.

I have had many last names, in my life. John Connor. That's the one I just can't get away from. The great fearless leader of the human resistance against 'The Machines.' My mom told me all about it. Some big guy with an Austrian accent and a shot gun who turned out not to be a guy at all but actually one of 'The Machines,' he told me about it.

I've heard about it my whole life.

I've heard about it until I'm almost sick of it. I'm just a kid who's been on the run half of his life: through Mexico as a young kid, in Foster care in LA during Junior High, leaving Charlie back in 1999. Or at least that's what it feels like. How can I be the great fearless leader of the human race when I barely know them, us?

My birth certificate, the original real one – I saw it once – says John Reese. My name was almost John Dixon, back in 1999 when my mom was engaged to a paramedic in New Mexico named Charlie Dixon.

Now my drivers' license says John Baum. Some days I wish it was John Cunningham, younger brother of Richie, pal of the Fonz. Some days I wish it was Juan Flores. You see, the Flores family down in Mexico, from grandpa Flores all the way down to the youngest of twenty-one first cousins, they had nothing (dirt floors and out door plumbing), but they loved each other. Right now, I'd settle for John Brown, older brother of Charlie, as long as I got to play flying aces with the dog.

I look back down at my notes from World History class. I'm supposed to be studying for a quiz tomorrow… Reconstruction, Jim Crow, Carpetbaggers, literacy tests…and what was going on in Europe after the American Civil War? Industrialization! Nationalism! The seeds of nationalism were being sown.

I can't quite focus on that, even knowing that I have a quiz tomorrow. My mind throws up the image of that girl on the roof, the one that jumped. What about her? Could I have stopped her? Why did she jump? Rumors said she was sleeping with a teacher. Mom would say, 'It's not your problem; keep your head down.' But if we're on this big quest to change the future and stop Skynet, then we have to investigate and uncover its origins. So, I think a little research is in order here, to begin to sharpen my investigative skills. Like Bruce Wayne, only without the wealth. John Wayne. Ha. Heh, heh. No, that definitely sounds wrong. John Grayson then. John Grayson, Amateur Detective. I look over my history notes one more time, finish my algebra homework, and turn out the light. In the dark I look across my room,, through window, up at the sky and smile.

The next day at lunch, Cameron asks, "Where were you?" in a casual tone, as I drop my lunch tray across from her. We eat in the courtyard outside the actual cafeteria. It's less crowded and there are more exits, just in case. Besides, I like the sun.

I start to answer, "I was…" But she rolls right over me, this time in a hushed tone, "You only have four minutes and fifty-one seconds left to consume your meal." So I scarf down my vegetables, while she continues, "How will you consume enough nutrition?"

I devour the mystery meat while she glares at me.

"Happy?" I ask. "You sound like my mother." She looks bright until I say 'my mother.' Then she looks slightly downcast. As though by saying 'my mother', instead of saying 'Mom,' I'm somehow excluding her, putting her on the outside. For a Machine, she sure is moody. "Let's try that again from the top, 'Hi, John! Whazzup?'"

"Okay," she says. "Hi, John! What's up?"

"I stopped by the school newspaper at the beginning of lunch." I reply, "I got us an assignment writing a memorial story for the girl who jumped."

Cameron's eyes narrow. "You're going to investigate, after she died." She states flatly.

"Inductive reasoning, very impressive." I smile, genuinely impressed. She may be my protector, but I'm the one who's got to teach her to fit in, to pass for human. It's not like Mom's going to try.

"But she is dead already. You are too late to help her." She doesn't respond to my complement, but I can tell from her expression that she's filed it away for later. She'll probably bring it up between classes, or on the way home from school. Right now, she's trying to talk me out of the memorial story. It's like verbal chess, but I'm usually playing this with my mom.

I gulp down an extra milk. "What if she was pushed?" I ask, maneuvering another of my pieces in this verbal chess match.

"But you are not a part of the School Newspaper." She moves one of her verbal chess pieces.

"We are now." Check. I stand up with my lunch tray.

"Wait, you said us." Check mate. She walked into it herself.

"Look, I don't know if anything happened. I don't know what happened," I make a partial concession. "But I need to develop my investigating skills and I'm starting with this. If you're going to protect me you'll have to help." I start walking toward the trash barrels and the door back into school.

"What is this?" she calls after me, just loud enough for me to hear. "Are you being like Amidala in Star Wars-Attack of the Clones, when she went to the planet Geonosis to help Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

"No, I'm being like Dick Grayson in All-Star Batman and Robin." I look back in her direction. "I'm investigating to find out what really happened" so that we can keep it from happening again. I didn't actually say that last part out loud. But with my face set like flit and determination in my stride, I'm sure my body language said it loud and clear.

On the way to class, we each introduce ourselves to a couple of other students as reporters with the school newspaper writing a memorial for Dana Griffith, the girl that died, and ask if they knew her or want to say anything about it. I make notes on a pad.

Cameron doesn't. She doesn't need to take notes, she has perfect recording and recall. One of the first girls she talks to asks, "Like, aren't you gonna write down these quotes?"

"No," Cameron points to her forehead, "I've got it all up here." She smiles excitedly. The other girls look at her as if antennas just grew out of her forehead. Cameron glances over at me and sees my pad and pencil. She unzips her bag and takes out a notepad and a pen before talking to the next student. I look over and flash her an encouraging smile.

She's catching on.

But I have to wonder…back in 1999 when I first met her, I wouldn't have known she wasn't human until she drove over that Terminator with the pick up truck. Even after that she acted more relaxed and natural. When we got to 2007, suddenly she was all robotic, like the big guy with the Austrian accent. I write down the name and some thoughts from the student I was talking with close the notepad and walk to class.

After school, I go to the registrar's office and ask for Jordan's parents' phone numbers and home address, so I can contact them for the story. It's amazing how this reporter cover is just opening up doors for me. I haven't learned much but people are talking to me. No wonder Superman picked this for his cover job. I also saw the filing cabinet, locked of course, with the teachers' records in the principal's office next door.

I need some insight into a suicidal teenaged girl's mind. I can't tell Mom about this, or she'll freak. And Cameron, well naturally we'll talk about it, but she needs more insight into the mind of the American teenage girl than I do. I resolve to contact Charlie. He's been a paramedic for something like fifteen years now. Surely, he's recovered a few attempted suicides of teenaged girls.

Before calling Charlie, I call Jordan's parents. Turns out they're both at home going over final preparations for the funeral. They're thrilled with the memorial article. Her mom cries on the phone and her father says that we can drop by for few minutes and talk with them, even look through her room. They're just finishing up with the Pastor and the Funeral Director, and they will have a few minutes for us before dinner.

I know that my Mom won't be home from her shift at the Diner until after five so we've got some time available to see the Griffiths. "Thank you so much for seeing us on short notice. The paper goes to press on Thursday, so we have to get the article turned in by Wednesday."

"We just so much appreciate that you and the school want to honor Jordan this way." Her mother breaks into tears again and her father gives me directions, using the city buses.

After I end the call, I turn to Cameron and start to explain what I've planned. She cuts me off turns and starts walking toward the bus stop. "I heard both sides of the conversation."

While we wait for the bus, I call Charlie.

"Hi, Charlie, it's John," I say a little bit nervously. "I'm sorry I slugged you the other day, man. I was in a weird place emotionally."

"Don't sweat it, John," He says with genuine warmth and compassion in his voice. "I'm just glad you called. You were gone so long. But how, man?"

"I can't talk about that on the phone, okay?" I say very abruptly. Man, this was a terrible idea, but I press on because I've got no one else to turn to. I steady my voice as much as I can, "Look, I need some help."

"Sure, son, anything." He sounds paternal. Or at least how I think a father would sound.

"We had a girl at our school kill herself last Friday." I try to sound broken up about it. But after the things I've seen… "I need to talk to you about that."

"Okay, sure." I can hear the wheels turning in his head as he thinks a loud, "My wife is on second shift and I'm on third this week, so I can see you around ten. I have to be headed for work by ten-thirty though. Can I come by and pick you up?"

"No, Charlie, I'm not sure what Mom would think about that." I actually envision a huge shouting match. "So, I'm not telling you where we live, but I remember the way to your house."

"Okay, John. I'll see you at ten."

We end the call as the bus comes up.

Cameron and I get on the bus. I start to pull out some cash for bus fare, but the driver holds up a hand and asks if we have student IDs for the High School. I start to pull mine out.

"No that's okay." the driver says, "You can both ride for free."

We move back and sit together. I'm lost in thought about Charlie. Suddenly Cameron's voice breaks me out of my reverie, "Aren't you going to ask me about my quiz?" Cameron looks over at me, slightly hurt. "Don't you care how I did? Some brother you are."

"Hey, whoa!" I turn to look at her with a puzzled expression on my face, and then I lean closer and say in a very soft tone, "You've got perfect recall of everything the teacher said in class and everything you read in the textbook. You got whatever grade you wanted to. Why would I ask about that?"

She leans closer, too. Our noses are about an inch apart. She's looking me straight in the eyes and she speaks softly, "Because it's what a normal person would do, right?" Cameron's face brightens, she's trying to show me that she's beginning to catch on to this act normal stuff. "How am I supposed to learn to act normal, if you won't treat me normal?"

I'm thinking that she can bend steel and hear the other side of my phone calls from two feet away, how can I possibly treat her normal. I'm feeling like everyone in the bus must be watching us. We pass through the shadow of a building. I look at reflections in the window glass around the buss. No body pays a bit of attention to us. "By watching everyone else." I say, like it's obvious.

And then her face goes all robotic and empty and she says, "Fooled you." She turns and looks around the bus and smiles, the confident pretty girl smile at everyone and no one. But it doesn't quite reach her eyes. I can tell that she's scanning everyone on the bus and in the street around the bus accessing threats. I wonder where she learned that smile. When she's done with her smile/scan she asks, "Was that good?"

I reply quietly, leaning toward her ear this time, "The smile and scan was great. It works as long as you look pretty. If you're banged up, just look mean when you scan. And the conversation was convincing, too."

She leans back and looks me in they eyes for emphasis and whispers, "I rehearsed it 38, 327 times silently, while you were on the phone. With Charlie." Then she leans over and says into my ear, "Why are you sneaking out to see him?"

"You can come with me, if you want. But I need some insight into whether the rumors and spray painted doors at school would have pushed her to jump. I need to figure out if someone was … mistreating her." I needed other things, too, like closure and so I did Charlie. But I wasn't sure how to put any of it into words for myself, much less for my protector.

"We have to change busses soon. How do I stop this bus?" Cameron stands up and reaches for the emergency stop lever.

"Hold on." I stand up next to her, reach out and gently pull her arm away from the emergency lever. She gently moves it away along with me. This is very good, because if she hadn't moved it herself, even a world champion body builder, like the Governor of our Great State of California couldn't have moved it. I lean over to the cord. "Just pull the cord, like this." I tug on the cord and a bell up by the driver goes, 'Ding.'

This time _everyone is_ looking at us. I turn and say, "Sorry folks, she just got back from a school exchange program in China." The other passengers went back to their conversations and iPods.

The driver slowed. Out the back window I could see a bus slowing down behind us. Cameron looked as well. I turned toward her and opened my hands with a questioning expression on my face. She just turned toward the exit and hurried off. I guessed that I had my answer and hurried after her.

We got on the next bus. I went first and flashed my ID to the driver before making my way back. Cameron did the same, right down to the facial expression. It was uncanny watching her copy me.

We sat down together and she said with a blank look on her face "So, we are going to Jordan's house, and Charlie's house and talking to all these people to figure out if someone was mistreating Jordan?"

"Right," I replied. "Good reasoning."

"And if we find that someone was mistreating her," she continued with the blank expression, "then we kill him?"

"No." I said emphatically. I continued honestly, "I don't know what we'll do, but it won't be that."

"What about the article?" She asked. It sounded like a genuine question.

"Oh, we'll write something flowery and warm that makes everyone feel good, regardless of what we find." I replied, trying to sound wise beyond my years.

"What about journalistic integrity, don't news people get fired for that?" she asked, again sounding completely sincere, "Like Dan Rather?"

"Him?" I said shocked. Of course I hadn't watched the news since before Cromartie tried to shot me. "When?"

"While we were gone." She said simply.

"How did you know that?" I held up a hand. "Wait. Let me guess." We said it together, "I don't sleep."

"Well, if you keep spending all this time with people, then you're going to have to figure out a way to de-fragment, re-compile, analyze and try to make sense of it all." I said very matter-of- fact-ly. John Jung, robot psychologist. "I suggest you learn how to sleep."

"I could sleep in Mr. Saint Thomas's math class." We both laughed at that. The guy showed film clips and tried to tell jokes to make the class interesting. Half those that paid attention, just wanted to see what he would do next. One day when someone popped a balloon, he fell over like he'd been shot. That got everyone's attention.

"So, about the article…" I began, and then paused to think of the right way to phrase it, "a memorial article is supposed to say nice things about the person who died, it's a bonus if it's true. Everything else… 'Believe half of what you see, none of what you hear, but everything you write.'

"H. L. Menkin." She said attributing the quote.

"I thought it was Perry White." I said, half joking. "Seriously, at Jordan's house, let me talk to the parents. You look through the room. Try not to disturb anything, but find her journal if you can."

My name is John Connor. I'm going to find out why Jordan Griffith jumped off the roof of the gym. And who ever is responsible, well they're in for life changing experience.

A/N--If you like this, check out my other stuff over on the Movies/ Superman page. And send me a review. If you didn't like it send me a reivew. That's one of they main ways I get better at writing.


	2. Getting Jordan's Journal

My name is John.

John Reese Connor Welch Clark

Johnny Cunningham. Juan Flores.

John Connor Brown Hurd Grayson (Amateur Detective) Jung (Robot Psychologist) Connor

These are all names that have changed. Some of them I gave myself. Some of them my mother gave me, whenever she took me from one hiding place to another. Run. Hide. Fight. Run. Hide. Run. Hide. One of them was given by Machines and men from the future. Run. Hide. Fight.

Run and hide, that's what the humans used to do in the Matrix movies until Neo inspired them to stand up and fight. Some of them lost their lives. Even Neo died at the end, but that's part of what a savior does: Die so that his people may live. And there's that other kind of Messiah who comes and kicks the enemy overwhelmingly into the dirt. And then there's the kind who transforms the whole paradigm and brings a thousand years of peace.

Which kind am I?

I'm the kind that's tired of running and hiding.

My school ID says John Hurd. Bahh.

My name is John Connor, the one name that keeps coming back, the one name that I can't shake off. I'm going to plant my feet and do something.

Run. Hide. Keep your head down. No one is ever safe. Run. Hide.

Fight.

Fight!

Plant your feet and do something constructive, something good, something to change the paradigm. Well, I'm going to figure out how to stop all of this, this whole war with the Machines. I will put a stop to it someday, when I'm older and smarter, when I can wrap my mind around the problem and see the solution that's probably been staring me in the face the whole time. For today, I'm going to find out why Jordan Griffith jumped off the roof of the gym. And who ever is responsible, well, they're in for life changing experience. Or maybe I'll hand them over to the police. Or maybe I will do both. I don't know.

The school ID that I just showed to the bus driver a few minutes ago says John Hurd. But the name I can't get away from is John Connor. And John Connor is going to make the rest of the Jordan Griffiths of the world safe.

"John we have to go."

"I'm planting my feet." Did I say that out loud? "I'm going to make all the other girls and boys like Jordan Griffith safe."

"Yes, John and to do that, we have to go." Cameron was talking. "We have to get off this bus and go talk to the Griffith family."

Right. Cameron. My real protector. My pretend sister. My real … friend? I opened my eyes and looked around. I was on a city bus. The bus route map posted up on bulkhead said LA. "Did you ring the bell?"

"Of course, and the bus driver even slowed to a stop. We have to go now." She had been speaking in a hushed tone to me. She looked up and around at the other passengers. "I'm sorry folks. He just got back. From a long trip. To China." She smiled that thousand watt smile and all was right with the world.

I got up, grabbed my pack, smiled and bowed to the other passengers and trotted down the stairs, like a champion. On the side walk at the bus stop, I looked at house numbers and street signs, and the address scribbled in my notes for the article.

Then I looked at Cameron's arm pointing at a house. I gently lowered her arm and whispered that it wasn't polite to point. Looking at where she had been pointing, I saw four people standing in an alcove at the center of a house and talking.

I saw a man who looked like he talked to Heaven and another who looked like he put people in the ground. Both men stood in an alcove in front of a door talking with a man and a woman who looked like grieving parents. That must be the house. Those must be the Griffiths and the others must be the Pastor and the Funeral Director.

Cameron started walking over, but I took her hand and held her back. "We should wait until the other men leave. It's the respectful thing to do."

She glared at me, "How do you know all this?"

"I just know." I shrugged. "It comes from growing up among people." Even if I don't know them, I know how to behave among them.

The Griffiths' visitors drove away in their separate cars and I turned to Cameron. "Let me talk to the parents. You go through the room and —"

She cut me off and said "—'find the journal without disturbing anything.' I know. You told me before you drifted off. To China."

But that wasn't exactly what I said. "You rephrased it. That's good." I smiled at her. "You're learning." Cameron is definitely a her. Definitely not an it. She's more than a machine. Or she might be. She's becoming more than just a Machine. We walked over to the Griffiths. They were still standing in the door, smiling and crying. They were sad and happy at the same time.

"Hi, I'm John and this is Cameron." I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"We're with the school newspaper." She chimed right in with a mix of enthusiasm and compassion in her tone.

"I'd like to talk with you about the memorial article for your daughter Jordan," I said, fast talking Johnny Mack the used car salesman. "And find out what you'd like to say yourselves."

"And could I look through Jordan's room, just to get a sense of who she was? I won't disturb anything, I promise. It will help when we write the article. It's how we work. Together." She must have been smiling. I almost stole a glance back at her. The Griffiths had started to look uncertain as Cameron's speech became more awkward, but they relaxed and looked at ease just like the bus passengers. She's got a great smile.

The Griffiths looked at each other and communicated in that wordless way that people who have worked, played, or just been together for long, long time will do. They both said, "Alright" together. As we walked inside, I noticed a mezuzah that had been painted over on the door post. I almost missed Cameron reach out to touch it. Then Mrs. Griffith took Cameron down a hall and I went with Mr. Griffith to a sitting room. "I'll be right back," Mrs. Griffith called.

Mr. Griffith gestured to a chair for me and took the one next to it. We sat. I began to explain, "So, what we're doing is talking with Jordan's fellow students to see what they remember about her. Of course we'd like to hear from you and your wife as well. Could you tell us the names of Jordan's closest friends, so that we can be sure to include them?"

"I'm sure that her mother and her sister can give you the names." And then he began to describe a dynamic and caring young woman who had a brilliant future ahead of her. I almost forgot to take notes. She rode horses and wanted to be a vet. She tutored in science after school a couple of times per week. She was a cheerleader. I asked about boyfriends. Her father told me that she didn't have a boyfriend right now, hadn't had from most of the summer. She'd gone to a writing seminar at the high school in the middle of summer and the boyfriend had stopped coming around during that time. She hadn't been sad. She had been more distant recently. She had given her fish to her sister. I asked about the graffiti at school. She hadn't said anything about the graffiti at school.

Jordan's mother joined us with lemonade about then. She told me about Jordan's friends and the clubs she'd been in at school and church. She talked about the family reunions that Jordan had always loved the middle weekend of August, and how strange it was that she didn't go this year.

It seemed that there was a lot of love in this house, but there were also rules and expectations. One the mantle sat trophies from each member of the family. All of them were First Place trophies.

There was a family portrait over the couch flanked by religious looking paintings of a shepherd, no doubt Christ, and a man standing at the door of a house, knocking, also doubtless Christ. A family Bible was prominently displayed on the coffee table in front of the couch. Down the hallway were pictures of Mr. Griffith and their son in their sports uniforms from college and high school mixed together with pictures of Mrs. Griffith and their daughters all wearing cheerleader outfits.

About this time, Cameron emerged from the back of the house and flashed her thousand watt smile. She barely nodded to me. "All done?" asked Mrs. Griffith. And before I knew it Cameron had sipped a glass of lemonade and we were shown out the door. I glanced down at my watch, fifteen minutes to the second, since we entered. Cameron reached again for the mezuzah. We had plenty of time to get home before my mother.

We made our way to the bus stop in silence. When we got there I asked her, "Why did you touch the mezuzah on the door post?"

"Is that what it's called, a mezuzah? It just seemed to be the thing to do." She smiled and mouthed 'fooled them.' And then she looked detached and blank again as she reported success on her assignment of finding the journal. We boarded the bus and sat quietly for a few blocks, then she said blankly, "At lunch you said, 'Inductive reasoning, very impressive,' in the tone you usually use for compliments, please explain."

"Well," I thought for a minute and wished I had glasses to adjust like Clark Kent. "Inductive reasoning is a hunch or a gut feeling…intuition. People usually get it before they have all the facts. Computers are usually very good at deductive reasoning, like adding up a column of figures." I paused for breath and I noticed Cameron holding my hand. It felt warm, and gentle. Her hand felt good. I continued, "My teachers at school always talked about inductive reasoning like some kind of prize for the smart students. So, I was impressed to see…you… show intuitive thinking." I took my hand back and pulled my note pad out of my backpack.

While looking down at my notes from the interviews, I ask her, "How did you do on your quiz?"

"Oh. Well. I, um got a hundred." Cameron replied with the timing and way of speaking a teenager would have used. Then she continued, "J. K. I missed two."

I looked up at her and smiled again, "Did you, really?"

"Yeah, those true / false questions…mmm, tricky." She was dead on slightly valley girl teenager in her delivery.

"So, you …" I was still trying to figure out how she did on the History Quiz, but she was Acing the how to act like a teenaged girl practical, right now.

"Oh, it's our stop!" Cameron exclaimed and reached up over me. I reached for the cord at the same time and our hands touched again. I wondered if the electricity were real or imagined. You could never tell with a robot girl.

While we waited at the bus stop for the next bus, I pulled out my chemistry book and some paper. "I'd better start on my homework, so that I have something to show when Sarah gets home."

Cameron smiled just a bit when I said 'Sarah' instead of 'Mom' or 'my mother.' I think she felt included, or at least not excluded. "I need a role model." She said almost absently, in completely flat tone though, so it was hard to tell.

"Really," I said while studying the periodic chart of elements trying to figure out which elements could bond covalently with boron.

"Yes." Cameron said simply, flatly. Whatever thing she'd had going there on the bus seemed to have vanished.

"Can we talk about it later?" I asked scribbling down the answers to some questions about chemical bonding.

"Okay." Another flat emotionless response.

When we got home, Cameron breezed through her homework with inhuman speed and precision. She did it all with pencil and paper. She asked for help on one of Mr. Saint Thomas's bonus problems, from Algebra class. I looked at it. I puzzled over it. I gave her a couple of suggestions. And then she speedily finished it all off. Every bit of it.

Then she announced that it was her day to cook. I was half way through with my English when Mom walked in. She glanced over my homework spread out on the kitchen table and seemed to approve of the progress I had made. Then she sniffed. She turned to Cameron and said sarcastically, "You cooked? Look, missy, I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but the tuna was for lunch on Saturday."

Cameron started to defend herself, explaining awkwardly that she had looked at the meal plan and the available ingredients and decided to randomize the meals. Mom lit into her like she was chewing out an employee at work. Since when did Mom become a supervisor?

I spoke up, "Its okay, Mom, please. We can eat tuna tonight and franks and beans for lunch on Saturday."

She looked back and forth between us and threw up her hands, "I need a bath." She stomped out. Conversation killer, I thought. I heard bath water running down the hall.

I organized my homework papers and cleared them off to set the table. I set two places opposite each other. Mom and I had sat facing each other to eat, since my first Terminator and I got her out of Atascadero. We used to eat sitting next to each other when I was a little kid. When Cameron brought the tuna and vegetables over she added a place next to mine. "You eat?" I said incredulously, but also keeping my voice down. Then I remembered the potato chip she ate at the gas station around the same time that she apologized to me for fooling me into thinking she was human. "Oh, yeah, you do eat."

"I'm special." Cameron said in a flat tone, but she flashed a small smile, too.

Cameron didn't eat much and mostly left me to my thoughts. I was thinking about what I had learned today about Jordan and her family.

The students I talked to confirmed that a lot of people thought she was sleeping with a teacher. We might know more when I read her journal. Or maybe I should have Cameron speed read it and then just show me the parts related to why Jordan jumped.

Somewhere in the middle of the meal, I heard Mom using the blow dryer.

Jordan's parents seemed loving, but the trophies, photos, paintings and Bible spoke of high expectations and perhaps of unyielding consequences for not living up to the expectations. Of course parents who love their children set high expectations and have consequences, but there's a line you know? Maybe her parents crossed that line. I guess the journal would be helpful there, too. Maybe I was going to have to read it after all, ech!

I finished eating and took seconds. The meal was good. The vegetables were undercooked for my taste, but something told me that Cameron had a nutrition data base somewhere in her head that said to cook them this way.

The tuna? Yeah, it was better than Mom's.

Cameron started to clear the table, but I piped up, "You cooked, I'll get the dishes. Well ours. Mom can fend for herself. We have no servants in this family." She wanted to be treated normal. I would make the effort. It would probably pay off later, the more we had to interact with people together. It would help if we acted naturally. Besides didn't slaves who were stronger or smarter always rebel? I would not get anywhere by treating Cameron as subservient. There's more power in leading from loyalty and hope than from fear and intimidation. If that's not in a leadership manual somewhere it should be.

"Okay. You can wash, but I want to take my own plate to the sink." Cameron replied without expression.

I finished off my homework and glanced at the clock on the microwave. I guess Cameron had set it. Mom and I never could figure out how to set the clocks on microwaves or stoves. It was just after nine. We would have to sneak out by nine-thirty to make it to Charlie's house by ten.

As Mom walked out I stretched and yawned. "Mmm. Big day today. Got another big day tomorrow. I'm going to turn in early."

I walked back to my room. Cameron followed. "I'm going to try to sleep, too. With John." I froze when she said that. And a three hundred plus pound android kept right on coming from behind me. I thought I was a gonner. If Cameron didn't crush me, Mom would crush us both after that remark. But Cameron pirouetted around me gracefully. "J. K. I'm going to try to nap on the couch."

"Sleep? Nap?" Again with the sarcastic tone. Mom and I are going to have a talk about this if she keeps it up. "What's going on here? How many times have you said that you don't sleep? Aren't you taking the whole pass for human thing a little bit too far?"

Cameron came to the position of attention in front of Mom. She declared emotionlessly, "I must de-fragment, re-compile and analyze my interactions with humans today." The Cameron did some other ballet move and flopped gently on the couch. No one would ever have thought she weighed more than a buck oh eight the way she hit the couch.

Mom grabbed the car keys and her Glock. "I'm going to see Andy the cell phone guy again this evening. No more sneaking out, Mister. And Missy, you make sure he stays in."


	3. What Does Charley Dixon Know

Disclaimer -- I don't profit and they don't sue. Thank you!

A/N – Thanks to hk and Ruby for error checking me. I have corrected the name of girl who jumped to Jordan and the ex-fiance to Charley Dixon.

-x-

In my room, I hear Cameron's flat tone call from the living room, "John, if I go off line to de-fragment and re-compile, how will I be able to protect you?" Toward the end of what she says she adds some inflection, raising the pitch of her voice on the last few words. She's trying to sound like she's asking a question.

I hop out of bed and walk out there. I see her lying on the couch on her side, with her hands under her head. I've seen my mom lie like that when she naps. "Maybe you don't have to lie down and go completely off line. Some people sleep walk. Maybe you could sleep walk your rounds. You could memorize the position of every object in the house and then program your legs to walk your rounds automatically. You could have your eyes and ears on automatic. Your CPU could devote most of its cycles to de-fragmenting, re-compiling and analysis--"

Seeing where I was going, she chimed in "And if I set the right prompts to monitor my sensor grid, I could bring myself back to full functioning if I detected any threats."

"Exactly." I smile and give her a 'thumbs-up' sign.

Seeing an empty car port out the window, I know that Mom had taken the Cherokee. She went to meet Andy the Cell Phone Guy for drinks or something. I get my self a glass of water from the sink and look out the window to think for a few moments.

Mom and Cameron had argued about Andy's chess-playing computer. Dude had interned at Cyberdyne. Mom thought maybe his chess computer was some kind of seed for Skynet. Cameron wanted deal with him with the same finality she suggested for most problems. Mom hadn't told me about any decision, but she did take her small 9 mm Glock pistol with her.

I didn't like the way Cameron so frequently suggested killing people. Back in 1997, I had worked the big guy with the Austrian accent, the one I told Enrique was 'Uncle Bob,' until he seemed to understand about respecting human life. Certainly I could show the same patience for Cameron, especially since I was older now and she was soooo much easier on the eyes. I set the glass and down and turn to her.

"Let's leave a little early for the meeting with Charley. Bring the Jordan's journal. I want you to read it starting from last summer. Look for any entries about teachers, or kissing or anything passionate. Then later tonight or tomorrow, show me what you find."

On the city bus heading over to Charley Dixion's place, I think about him. He treated me like a parent should treat a child. He didn't boss me around. He showed empathy and compassion. He gave natural consequences if I broke the rules. Like those times when I stayed up too late, he made sure I got up on time in the morning and didn't let me take a nap when I got home from school. He didn't yell at me for staying up or try to force me to do what he wanted. But he didn't let me escape the consequences of being tired. I learned to go to bed on time. He was like that with a lot of things. Mom could take a page from his book.

Once, I heard Mom thinking out lout about the big guy with the Austrian accent. She said, "The Terminator would always be there to protect John; never get drunk and beat him….In an insane world, he was the sanest choice." Uncle Bob may have been an ideal protector, but Charley had cared about me. When I called him on my cell phone, he'd been quick to dismiss the punch, and quick to agree to help. Maybe he still cared.

I turn to Cameron. Her eyes are open but not focused and her face is slack. I wave a hand in front of her eyes. She sits up and looks me in the eyes, "I was napping."

"Okay." This was different, but not entirely unexpected, given the suggestions I made earlier about sleep walking, "Are you back now?"

"Yes," she gives me definite nod.

I touch her forearm gently. "When we get to Charley's, we're not going to be able to pretend to be brother and sister."

"Why not." Cameron's eyes get big and her eyebrows arch, making an expression of surprise, but her voice is still completely flat. "That is our cover story"

"Charley knew me and my mother, before we met you. He asked her to marry him. We were going to be a family. He knows I don't have a sister."

"I can say that you are my friend." Her voice sounded hopeful, but her expression was flat. She wasn't getting expressions and tones synched.

"Am I your friend?"

"Yes." She takes both of my hands in hers. I caught off guard again by how warm and gently and natural they fell. As she says, "Of course you are my friend," I see something in her eyes, in her face that looks like distant longing. And then abruptly it's gone. Her expression goes flat, she takes her hands back and smoothes out her skirt. "In the future," she says. "In the future."

In the future, hmm. I don't press the issue. "Saying that we're friends will do with Charley."

One subject closed, Cameron brings up another one, "Earlier. On the phone. You told Charley you couldn't talk about something. What was it? What did he ask about?"

I don't want to talk about it with Cameron any more that I wanted to talk about it with Charley. I reply defensively, "Why do you ask? You heard the other side of the conversation, right?"

"I'm trying to act normal." Cameron says, with expression of complete openness, but something in her eyes seems to betray a bit of concern. Maybe I'm reading too much into her expressions.

"He said that Sarah and I had been going for so long and then he asked how."

"His actual words were, 'But how, man?' What was he asking?"

I answer "He was asking how we were gone so long." But I know there's more to it than that. I realize that I need to think through this now, or I will say something dumb or unexplainable to Charley later.

Cameron claps her hands lightly on her thighs and her face brightens. She asks "Will you tell him that you were on a school trip to China?" with a hint of excitement and a hint of a joke in her voice.

I let out a sigh and deflate into the bus seat. "He probably wanted to know how come when I snuck into his place before, I looked the same as I did the last time he saw me back in 1999."

"So, telling him you went to China will not work," Cameron's expression grows very distant. I think I can literally see the wheels turning inside her head, "because if you had gone to China you would have continued to grow and age with the normal passage of time. You would look different. Now."

"I could tell him the truth, and he'd never believe me."

-x-x-

A few minutes later, I'm standing in Charley's doorway as he greets me. Cameron stands back to the side, just out of his line of sight. Charley started to give me a hug. I didn't open my arms to return the embrace, so he extended a hand and we shook. I reached around with my other hand to clap him on the shoulder and he did the same. It was a little bit awkward at first, but it was good to see him again. While Mom and I had been with him, that time was the closet thing I ever had to a normal life. I had a room with furniture that was mine and sheets that were mine and posters on the walls that were mine. I even had some kids I hung out with in the neighborhood.

Cameron stepped into view. From the corner of my eye I could see her watching us, studying the way we greeted each other. I wondered absently if she would try that with Mom.

"You brought a date to talk about the dead girl?" Charley says surprised and saddened that our reunion must be shared with an outsider.

"This is Cameron. My friend." I say.

"John is my writing partner." Cameron says with a touch of excitement and the hint of a devious smile. Then her voice and expression go flat, "We are writing a memorial article about her for the school news paper."

Charley nods, accepting for the moment. He brings both of us inside and leads us through the foyer to the kitchen. I notice the photos on the wall in the entryway, framed pictures of him and his wife. His blonde beautiful wife. I see some others that look like his parents and some that are probably the in-laws.

In the kitchen he askes, "Do you want some water or fruit juice?" Both of us decline. "Okay well wait out here for a few minutes," He looks at Cameron and gestures to the living room. "I have to show John something in the back."

I looked around at the photographs on his walls. There some of his rescue squad from back in the day, from New Mexico, but most of them are of him and his wife and their friends. I didn't see any from my time with him. Not surprising. Most guys would get rid of photos of the ex.

"Look, John I know you want to talk about the girl who died, but before that…"he pulled out a photo of him and me smiling together with a basketball. It was taken on the neighborhood basketball court where we lived in New Mexico back in 1999. He had more hair then and fewer lines on his face. But I look exactly the same as I do now. He held it up for me to see, and asked "I can understand your mother skipping town and taking you with her. Couples call off weddings all the time. Usually one person doesn't leave everything behind and just disappear, but that's not the big issue here. You haven't grown or aged at all since then, how is that possible?"

"Don't ask, man." I lean back away from him and my jaw tenses.

Charley looks…concerned, confused, the phrase grasping at straws comes to mind, "No, I have to ask and I need you to tell me. Something. We were family, you and me, right? You owe it to me to tell me something. Tell me its faeries, or magic or you were in cold storage like Mel Gibson in that movie 'Forever Young.' But tell me something."

"Would you believe a time machine in a bank vault in LA?" I try the truth.

He stares at me blankly, befuddled.

I think fast, his suggestion about Mel Gibson and 'Forever Young' as a good a story as any. "Cold storage, man. I was diagnosed with a rare form of muscular dystrophy and Mom put me on ice to wait for a cure."

"Right." Charley knows this isn't true. He may be just a paramedic, but he and I both know that anyone being frozen cryostasis and re-animated, like in '2001: A Space Odyssey' or 'Forever Young' would be all over the news and _everyone_ would be talking non-stop about it in hospitals and rescue squads all over the world. He drops it. He has an answer and that's what he needed. "Your friend out there, is she Autistic or something?"

"Yeah, she fell out of a tree and hit her head." I try to give the same story Cameron came up with for the security guard at school. "She hasn't been the same since the doctors put in the steel plate."

"Okay." I can see the wheels turning in Charley's mind, too. But they don't race around at the speed of electrons. "Let's go back out there and talk about the girl who died."

We're all seated in the living room. I have grape juice in a small bottle and Cameron has a glass of water. I tell Charley that I want to figure out why she jumped. I tell him about the rumors that were going around that she was sleeping with a teacher. "But it wasn't until graffiti started showing up on the walls that she began to come unglued."

"What kind of graffiti would affect a kid like that?" Charley asks.

"Oh, yeah. You din't see them." I look up for a second. "Paintings that looked like the door way to a class room appeared on the walls of the school. Some painted with bras tied to the doorknobs or the door would be partially open and there would be a shadow of an adult man holding a cartoon of this girl and kissing her," I explain.

Cameron looks at me, then at Charley, the she says with a little bit of enthusiasm "That last one was the one that really made her freak. I heard her crying the restroom saying that her parents would kill her. I offered her a gift to cheer her up. I tried to give her a face powder compact. That didn't make her jump did it?" Concern crept into her voice as she shaped the question and I wonder whether some how this killing Machine is looking for absolution or just simulating the emotions.

"No, Cameron," Charley responds with empathy, leaning toward her and extending a hand with the fingers open gently. "It was nothing you did." When she says nothing else, he turns back to me, "What do you know about her parents?

Cameron says, "We went to their house this afternoon."

I tell him, "They seem to be loving and religious, but also strict perfectionists. There may have been harsh consequences."

He sits back and thinks for a moment, "Was it true? Was she sleeping with the teacher?

"We don't know that yet." Cameron answers before I can. Then she continues, "Her journal said that her boyfriend, the wide receiver from the football team stopped seeing her around the time she started kissing another man. She talks about the other man using the initials M. K."

I wonder if Mr. Keller, the school newspaper sponsor was also the leader of the writing seminar Jordan went to over the summer. I lean forward, looking at Charley expectantly; Cameron copies me a moment later.

"Well, I'm no psychiatrist," Charley begins, "but we do get some training on child abuse and suicidality. If an adult authority figure, like a teacher or a coach was forcing it on her against her will, that could have damaged her psyche and made her depressed and withdrawn. The wall murals could have pushed her past what she could endure."

I stood. Cameron stood. Charley stayed sitting. "You know, John, I have to get to work and you have to get your lady friend here home, I'm sure, but this talk of kids dying at school…I just remembered something from right after you and your mom left…I know a guy from the rescue squad in Red Valley, New Mexico. He transferred here to LA about the same time as I did. He tells a story about a school shooting, right after your mom broke up with me. The shooting made the papers. Your name wasn't in the articles. It said John Reese, but I knew it was you. My friend said the witnesses reported the shooter had some kind of robotic leg. Is there something else you need to tell me?"

"John he knows too much. We have to go, John." Cameron takes me by the arm and starts moving me toward the front door.

OMG. How do I respond to this?


	4. Stake out at the School Office

Disclaimer -- Thanks to all the creators behind the Terminator Saga for letting us play in your world.

A/N -- I appreciate the warm reception on this board.

"Charley what in the world is that kid doing here?" While Cameron had been tring to get me out the front, Charley's gorgeous blonde wife had walked in through the back. Right now she stands in the kitchen pouring herself a drink. "Isn't he that road sign stealing, hacker cretin from your ex-fiancée, the one who walked out on you?" That isn't very charitable of her. "Oh migod, Charley!" Now she's yelling. "You aren't getting back together with her, are you?" Charley's gorgeous blonde wife came home a little early feeling amorous. Now she's upset.

Charley took a step back and held up his hands. He was trying to tell her it wasn't what she thought. She wasn't listening.

"John, come on, this situation is escalating out of control. We have To Go Now." Cameron had me dragged halfway out the front door and Charley's wife had a juice glass in her hand cocked back like she was about to throw it at his head. How do I get into things like this?

At least no one was shooting at us.

Thank Heaven for small favors.

-x-

It all started with the falling girl.

A blond cheerleader named Jordan Cowen climbed up on top of the gym at my high school and jumped off. I watched her fall. I wanted to go up the stairs on the outside of the building and try to save her.

Could I have talked her down? I don't know.

I'm meant be this great leader, this great hero in some vague future that's not so far off anymore. How do I grow up to be that guy, if all I ever do to practice for it is keep my head down, try not to be noticed and run away? Cameron tried to convince me not to go up there, but I never got the chance because Jordan jumped.

Normal kids do not jump off of buildings and become chalk outlines. Something or someone made her jump. I'm going to find out who did and make them pay.

I got Mr. Keller, the school newspaper adviser, to let me and Cameron join the paper staff to write a memorial article about Jordan. I promised him a feel good, heart warming story that left everyone feeling like Tiny Tim at the end of A Christmas Carol by Dickens. So far that has gotten me several interviews, put me on the trail of a possible child abuser, and right now I'm in the middle of a verbal combat zone.

I take my one free arm and stick two fingers in my mouth make that really loud whistle. Then I speak softly. Mr. St. Thomas, my algebra teacher, does that sometimes to get the class to quiet down and pay attention. "Would you all just be quiet and listen to me for two seconds? I have answers to both of your questions that will diffuse this time bomb of a moment. Everyone quieted down and Cameron loosened her grip on my arm.

"First off, Mrs. Dixon, my mom is on a date right now with a guy who sells phones and builds computers, okay. She's not interested in Charley.

"Second, Charley, that guy you were asking about? Combat veteran who lost a leg in Afghanistan, got it rebuilt back here and then went nuts, okay?" I lied about Cromartie. "End of story." I paused and took a breath. "Everybody okay with that?"

I stole a glance at Cameron as she slugged me in the shoulder and winked. A smile is worth a thousand words.

Next thing I know its hugs all around. Charley makes it to work. Miss Sylvia, Charley's wife is giving Cameron tips on make up and we're both invited back any time we want.

Pretty Cool, huh? Except that he knows about the Terminator that came after me in New Mexico; that's going to require some follow up and smoothing over. Charley's a smart guy. If he knows any more than what he told me, he'll put two and two together.

-x-x-

The next morning I have a quick breakfast and Cameron and I catch the early bus to school. I need to figure out what time of day to try to get into those teacher records. Of course we'll need to know whose records to look at. We could start with all the ones with a last initial of K, but I'd rather narrow it down a bit more first.

But for now we're staking out the principal's office and watching to see who else is around and paying attention. "What were you saying about a role model yesterday?" I ask Cameron.

"I am a Machine trying to blend in among humans. I can not simply go around waving my arms, shouting 'Warning Will Robinson.'

I smile and have to choke back a laugh, "Was that a joke?"

"I mean it." Cameron stares at me and I swear she looked serious. "Did I say something funny." She asked in her usual deadpan dry delivery that just made the whole moment even funnier.

"Yes. Absolutely. Can you imagine yourself doing this:" I stand up with my knees touching and take little tiny steps. Then I pin my elbows to my sides, swing my hands around and say, "Danger Will Robinson. Danger Will Robinson." I stop, sit back down next to her and try to stop laughing.

Cameron flashes her own smile and punches me in the shoulder like last night. "I can imagine that if I were to do that, I would look much more graceful."

"You would look hilarious. So, the robot from Lost in Space is out."

"Yes. Absolutely." She says that just like I did a moment ago. "I need a role model to pattern myself after."

"Have you thought about Mr. Data from 'Star Trek'?" I say glancing at my watch and making a note on my pad as the School Secretary walked past the Office to the Ladies' Room.

He face goes absolutely blank for a moment and her eyes go out of focus. I think that's her thinking about something look. Then her eyes go back in focus a moment before she speaks, "I don't think he would work because Data was an android trying to be like a human, but he never had to actually pass for human."

I look at my not pad and think for a moment. "I can't suggest anyone else, but you have to seriously work on your hourglass look."

"Explain hourglass look." Cameron says emotionlessly. I make loose fist with my left hand and put it up to my chin and look at her thoughtfully while I listen to her response.

I extend my left hand away from my face and open it slightly, "You were processing information a moment ago, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, when people do that they sometimes furrow their brows, something like this." I showed her. She looked at me carefully and copied my expression. "Or they fiddle with their glasses, take a drink of water, or look at their note pad or hand computer. There's all kind of little quirks that people have when they're thinking but those seem to be the most common to me. What you did was, well, it wasn't very human."

"Okay." She looks intent just for a moment. "Thank you."

"Sure." I open both my hands in an 'it was nothing' gesture. "I'm just trying to help you fit in. Who were you thinking of for role models?"

She leans in close and speaks conspiratorially, "I was thinking of R. Daneel Olivaw or Andrew Martin."

"Who are they?" I lean forward and ask in equally conspiratorial tone while making a note of the time since an Assistant Principal just came and opened the Office.

"R. Daneel was one of the heroes of Isaac Asimov's Robot novels. The R. in Olivaw's name stood for Robot. He was a robot that looked like a man. Elijah Bailey was a detective on the New York City Police and R. Daneel was assigned as his partner. Only Bailey and a couple of other Earthmen knew that R. Daneel was a robot. So, Daneel had to learn to act like a human and fit in. Andrew Martin was a robot who actually did become a human being in the movie 'Bicentennial Man'" She explained it all with a thoughtful tone. She didn't gesture much but she had a look of sincerity about her.

"Daneel Olivaw sounds like an especially good role model considering that we are doing this whole Private Investigator thing with Jordan's death." I guess that made me Bailey. Hmm, John Bailey.

By the time the bell rang we had noted what time the Office people came in for work and determined that no one was paying attention to the Office before they got in. I probably wouldn't be able to stay after school since Mom was working day shift at the diner all this week and I was pretty sure that janitors came in after school. It wouldn't do to have them see me any more than anyone else. Tomorrow I would slip into the office thru the ceiling tiles and get the teacher file.

As we walked to class I stopped Cameron and said, "Hey, don't take the whole role model thing too far. You need to figure out who you are and learn to be that. Don't try to be someone else or someone else's idea of who you should be. You'll never be happy that way."

"You sound just like some one I remember." She put a hand on my shoulder and smiled like she was welcoming an old friend.

"Who's that?" I ask, genuinely wondering.

"You." She said simply. And on that note we walked to English class.


	5. A Suspect Emerges

In the passing periods between classes on Tuesday morning, Cameron and I each talked with another four or five students about Jordan. Cameron tried to find other students who went to the same summer writing seminar as Jordan. I tried to find the ones her mother had thought were her closest friends. I also found the wide receiver she'd been seeing up until the writing seminar, nice guy actually.

Cameron seemed edgy since English. I couldn't put my finger on it but she seemed to be tense or concerned about something. English was one of only two classes we didn't actually have together. But the classrooms were next door to each other and separated only by an accordion wall, like hotel ballrooms have, the kind that slides across a larger room to subdivide it into smaller ones. She could hear through the wall and still protect me. I on the other hand could not hear thru the walls except on class discussion days when her class got LOUD, so I didn't know what had happened.

The other class was auto shop. But with all the tools and heavy equipment to defend myself with and the cars to hide behind, I convinced Mom that I could take that one by myself, while Cameron took Home-Ec. If last night's dinner was anything to judge by, Cameron was going to do fine in Home-Ec.

By now the teachers and staff had heard about our memorial article and some of them came up to us in the lunch line to give their thoughts and condolences. I also kept noticing other girls smiling and winking at Cameron, particularly ones from the newspaper staff and the pom pom squad.

"What's up with the popular chicks?" I asked her as we walked to a table with our trays. I wasn't sure what was going on, but the only thing that had put us on the map at this school so far was our memorial story about Jordan. So, whatever it was probably had to do with Jordan.

"They're slender and they wear trendy clothes." Cameron replied tersely, looking away.

A witty reply, but she looked away instead of straight at me. Something wasn't quite right. But there was the wide receiver kid coming out of the other food line with his tray. I set my try down, and I grabbed up my notepad and a pen. "Will you be okay?"

"Yes." She looked at me intently.

"Don't be a freak," I smiled. "I'll be right back." I thought I had found out everything I needed from the wide receiver. But maybe if I left Cameron alone from a moment, the girls would come over and talk to her and we could learn something.

By the time I caught up with him, wide receiver guy had already crossed the invisible boundary into Jockland. Jockland is that section of the cafeteria where the football team, basketball team and lacrosse teams sit together to act tough, stare at the cheerleaders and poke fun at band geeks and "wimpy" sports like soccer and swimming. "Hi, John," he remembered me. He didn't try to make me carry his tray either, more cool points for wide receiver guy.

"So, she was a special girl, huh?" I said to him. Then I looked past him toward Cameron to see if the other girls would come talk to her. They did.

"Yeah. I really miss her." He sounded broken up and sincere. He should be the first one in line for grief counseling. "I don't know if she was _the_ girl, but she was smart, clean cut, from a good family. We made a good couple." The guy went on about how he appreciated the article. He said that we had inspired him to put picture of her outside the counselors' office with a note, to see if others would leave notes, too.

I was paying half attention and trying to take notes about what he was saying. At the same time I was also looking past him to see when the other girls would leave my table so I could go back to eat and talk with Cameron. Suddenly a milk carton came whizzing at my head. I saw it from the corner of my eye, put my pencil in my mouth and reached up to catch it one handed.

"Whoa. You should try out for the team." One of the huge guys said as I threw the milk across the across Jockland into a trashcan. "You should _definitely_ try out for the team."

I took the pencil back out of my mouth, "Yeah, thanks guy. But right now, I've got to see what those other girls wanted with Cameron." I nodded to the wide receiver and glanced down at my pad to see his name. "Dale."

"John." Dale nodded back.

"She's your sister, yah?" The huge guy who didn't look smart enough to be a linebacker said.

"Yeah," I stopped for a moment and turned back to him, "but we're not related."

Wide receiver guy looked at me like I was suddenly speaking Sanskrit or Hindi.

"Except on our parents' side." I added gesturing with open arms to take in everybody in earshot. Wide receiver guy laughed. Everyone else was silent. "Joking," I said.

He laughed at the right moment and I could tell that he got it. Smart guy. The rest of them started muttering to each other, trying to figure out what I meant and why it was funny.

I walked back over to Cameron. She looked bewildered now. Okay she had a slight variation on her usual blank stare, but I was pretty sure it meant bewildered. Either I was getting be an expert at reading Machine emotions (John Jung robot psychiatrist) or I was descending into paranoia (John Catch-22).

"They all know." She said. "Not one of them is in my English class, but they all know."

"What do they know?" I sat down. "Cause I don't know. I can't help you if I don't know."

She slid a folder across the table, and opened it. It had an essay in it. I looked at the comments. Mr. Martin K. Carmichael, Esquire, English teacher had written the following: 'Cameron, you seem to be having some trouble with your creative writing.' Duh she's a Machine. Machines don't create. 'Why don't you stop by after school Wednesday for some private tutoring.' His periods looked vaguely heart-shaped. He signed it Mr. Martin K. "He touched me on the shoulder and smiled when he dropped the essay back on my desk." Cameron pushed the food around on her tray. "The other girls started giggling as soon as he walked away."

I still liked Mr. Keller, the newspaper advisor, as our suspect. But all we had on him was that his last name started with a K.

"Mr. Martin K. is the one who lead the writing seminar." Cameron said intently.


	6. Review the Case and Make a Plan

Disclaimer -- I make no money. Yet. They don't sue. Ever. I hope.

A/N yes I realized during ep. 5 that the Connors' cover name is Baum not Hurd. Perhaps I will fix that in the preceeding chapters...

Tuesday evening Mom came straight home from work. She and Cameron were arguing about Andy the computer programmer guy. His chess playing program was too intelligent. Mrs. Dyson said that he worked at Cyberdyne. Cameron said he had to die. Mom wasn't sure.

Mom liked him.

Cameron puzzled me when she went into that mode. How could she have been so utterly convincing as a girl when I first met her back in New Mexico and then become this awkward, clunky…thing like the Uncle Bob Terminator when he first saved me back in 1997 (you know, the big guy with the Austrian accent)? How could she have moments of almost intimacy with me, like the other day on the bus where we were HOLDING HANDS, and then barely 24 hours later she's emotionlessly talking about busting a cap in the guy Mom's been going to dinner with. Argh! Women. Mothers. Machine-girls.

Eventually Mom left and Cameron and I finished our homework.

We put away our books and papers. Cameron made coffee for us (organically decaffeinated). Then we talked about the case.

I reviewed what we knew while she ate a sandwich. She doesn't seem to like eating in front of Mom. I wrote each fact down on a three by five index card and arranged them in the order of events on the table in front of us. Last year, clean-cut cheerleader Jordan was seeing intelligent wide receiver Kevin. In August Jordan went to the writing seminar lead by Mr. Martin K. Wide receiver guy Kevin and some of his football buddies stumble on Jordan kissing an adult in a janitors' closet late in the afternoon after summer football practice. Last week Jordan saw the graffiti murals that suggested she was sleeping with a teacher. Last Friday, Jordan said her parents would kill her if they knew and then she jumped off the roof. Today, Mr. Martin K. had invited Cameron to after school private tutoring.

It looked like Mr. Martin K was our man. But we didn't have enough to go to the principal or the School Police Officer.

I put my hand down firmly in the center of the table and made a soft popping sound. Then I rubbed my face with both hands. "What did Jordan's journal say about MK? What did it say they did?"

Cameron furrowed her brow. Then she shook her face as though the expression did not feel right. She turned her face slightly up and away and she got an inward look in her eyes and the she said, "It says they talked. He admired her writing."

"And?" I took a sip of coffee and moved my left and in circles gesturing for her to continue.

She twists her head around just slightly, "It says they hugged and kissed. He bought her something called lingerie from some place called Frederick's." Then she breaks form the inward look. She looks right at me, smiling, slightly confused, "I don't know what that means. What is lingerie? Is that some kind of pasta like linguini?"

"No." I say holding back a chuckle. I lean back in my chair and push away with my other hand. "It's nothing like linguini. Let me worry about what it is." I bring the chair back down and turn back to her trying to look serious. "Does it say they fracked, made love, did the deed, consummated their relationship?"

"No, John." Cameron takes a sip of her coffee. "Jordan wrote about passion and kissing and touching, but not about inserting appendages into orifices." Cameron says in completely normal serious tone.

"Were you reading the dictionary again?" I chuckle slightly.

"No. Dr. Ruth." Cameron smiles and chuckles, too, like she's glad that I got her joke. Then she presses right ahead talking about Jordan. She speaks in just a bit of a hurry. "Jordan wrote that the MK's first kiss caught her by surprise. She said that she resisted at first. The next time they kissed she wrote that they first watched a romantic movie and drank wine and she kissed him back and enjoyed it.

"Blah, blah, blah.

"Her last few entries are very confused. Her emotions are all messed up. She's feeling dirty inside. She's sick of lying to her parents. She wants out. He threatens to give her a failing grade and his wife the cheerleader adviser to throw her off the cheer squad."

"Ich." I make a sour face. "Dude is married and fooling around with high school girls."

"Yes." Cameron puts hand down firmly in the center of the table making a gentle pop, then she runs both hands through her hair, quickly fixing it. She says in serious tone like a lawyer on TV, "We may have him for sexual harassment, but there's not enough to charge him with sexual assault."

"Have you been watching Law and Order SVU?" I smile again as I ask her.

"No. I've been downloading Shark from iTunes." She smiles back.

"Okay. We need a plan." I push back from the table and stand up slowly turning and stretching.

"I think the plan is obvious." She stays seated. She does turn and look at me intently, "I go to tutoring with him and when kisses me, I bust his chops."

I sit back down and take my coffee cup in my hands. I feel its warmth. I try to take in the warmth of the one who made it for me, "Have you every kissed anyone before?"

"What kind of a question is that?" She raises her hands half way up with the palms open fingers slightly bent up. Cameron tries to laugh it off. But her eyes aren't laughing. Her eyes say she's processing.

I wait until she focuses on me, "It's the kind that goes right to the heart of this situation. Have you?"

"Are you concerned that if I'm not a very good kisser, he will know something is up?" Cameron does a great job of sounding coy.

"No." I tell her that isn't it. "Answer my question, Cameron. Have you ever kissed anyone."

She looks blank and distant, withdraws completely into her head for just a moment and then she's right back with me. She says. "These lips have never kissed anyone."

"What kind of an answer is that?" I ask.

She smiles, "The accurate kind." She pauses for a beat and then continues earnestly, "That's all I can say right now."

"Okay." I say with finality. I stand up again and this time I take my coffee mug. I move to hold up the column opposite the sink, on the far side of the table. "Then you can't go all the way through with it. I'll have to figure out something else."

"Do you think I need to practice?" She stands and walks over toward me reaching out a hand to touch my cheek. "Do you want to kiss me, John?"

"What kind of a question is that?" I take her arm by the wrist and gently remove her hand from my face. I fold her hand gently in both of mine and the release it.

"It's the kind that goes to the heart of the situation." She takes my hand back.

I take a deep breath and I lead her to the living room, still holding her hand. I take a seat in the wing chair and she sits next to me at the end of the couch. I take both of her hands. I look her straight in the eyes and I say, "The first time you kiss someone it should be someone really special."

She nods and moves closer to me.

"A first kiss should be wonderful memory that a person will cherish forever." I say like I mean it. It may sound like a line off a cue card, but I mean it. Especially for her.

She nods and closes her eyes. She slides into the chair with me still holding one hand. She takes the hands that we're holding and puts them up to my chest and then I feel her other arm on my back pulling me close to her. She says in a smooth, husky voice, "Do you want to kiss me, John." And then with her eyes closed she moves right in and I want her so bad I can already taste her lips and feel her tongue in my mouth. But my free hand comes up between our lips.

"Cameron, my body says yes," I exhale and take a breath, "but my heart says not yet."

"Okay." She blinks a couple of times and moves back to the couch. "You are unhappy with me. Did I do something wrong." She stands up and starts to walk away.

I stand step up behind her and put my arms around her. I take her hands in mine and clasp them in the center of her stomach near her navel. Without even a pause to ask myself why or how she even has a belly button, I pull her close to me. She closes her eyes and arches slightly. She extends her neck and turns her face slightly up in the air. We take a deep breath together and exhale together. I say to her "You've done nothing wrong. Not with me. I am very pleased with you. This just isn't the time."

"Okay," she says with a tone of acceptance then she turns around slowly keeping one hand in mine and slowly moving the other up my back she draws me into an embrace. The she plants a peck lightly on my lips and pirouettes away like a ballerina.

"Wow." I say. I can't find words for more than that becuase there's not enough blood in my brain.

She smiles and presses her fingers together in front of her chest and bounces up and down on her toes. She all most says "Tee-hee-hee" or maybe its just a very quiet laugh

"So," she says, "we need a plan."

"Yeah." I agree. I take a deep breath and will some of that blood back into my brain "I need to hack his email. Let me see that essay. Maybe he left his email address with his invitation."


	7. Private Tutoring

Disclaimer -- I make no profit and They agree not to sue

A/N - - A comment about the timing of this story. This whole story is meant to take place during the events of episodes 2 and 3. For those who may think there is too much closeness between Cameron and John or that she's acting too human, too fast I say two things. One, remember how human Cameron acted when we first met her in episode 1. Two, think of this story as the funny moments and close moments that couldn't be shown between when Jordan jumped and the day after Sarah burned the Turk because of 44 minutes of screen time. This is balance for all the clunky and awkward moments that make it onto the screen.

WARNING READER DISCRETION ADVISED: There is harsh language and unpleasantness in this chapter. It's rated a very hard PG-13 or a weak R.

Just to be thorough, on Wednesday morning, I sneak into the Principal's Office, pick the lock on the filing cabinet and take a glance at the folder of Mr. Martin K. Carmichael, Esquire, English Instructor. I find what I expected to find: Average performance reviews and written counseling not to kiss students, or consequences up to and including blah blah blah. I look at the test scores in the file. His students do very well on all the State Exams, so evidently he's a capable teacher. I put everything back like I found it.

On the way out I consider the reviews in light of what I found out last night while I was hacking into his computer. The reviews might be different if the Principal knew what kind of chat rooms he hangs out in online. I hope his wife hasn't seen the websites he frequents: With names like the ones I found in his history, I was glad I wasn't seeing them either.

The day goes by in a blur. Sometime, I notice that wide receiver Kevin left a portrait of Jordan Cowan with a note. A couple more notes are there later. I pass a quiz in Geometry. I take notes in history but I don't know what they said. Auto Shop is … Auto Shop.

Finally the end of the day comes and the school nurse is on her way out for the afternoon. I bring a mannequin dressed in a swim suit into her office. I tell her it's for a prank on the football players. I lie it down on one of the examining couches so that its face is turned away from the door. I pose it so that it looks inviting.

Cameron should already be in Mr. Carmichael's room.

Cameron sits primly, yet dressed like one of the Japanese Magna girls from Sailor Moon. She has a folder with the essays that she has written so far. Mr. Carmichael comes in looks at the essays, starts talking her about writing and creativity and passion. When he walks around behind her and starts rubbing her shoulders with his hands, to relax her. Cameron touches her stomach and winces. "Cafeteria food. I feel nauseous." She explains flatly. She doesn't lie very well. Mr. Carmichael has no doubt heard some of the teachers discussing whether or not Cameron is autistic. Her flat delivery doesn't phase him.

Carmichael offers her an ibuprofen and a bottle of water.

"I have to have Pepto-bismol, it's the only thing that works for me. I'm sure the nurse has some." Cameron stands and winces again. "If I'm not back in five minutes come find me." She prances out trying to giggle, but failing.

Cameron does come to the nurse's office but she climbs under the desk. Her job here is to record what gets said. All the lights are low. I'm in there too, hoping to Heaven that I can get through the speech I have planned without either slugging the teacher or voiding my bowels in my pants.

After a few minutes Carmichael comes in. I push record on the video camera, but without the lighting compensation, so I'm getting sound and very little picture. In the dim light he sees the mannequin, and he sees what he wants to see, what he expects to see. He sees a girl there posed invitingly. He says something seductive with Cameron's name.

I hear the sound of his fly coming undone. I stand up behind him out of his line of sight with a video camera and turn on the camera's light. The self adjusting camera pumps the light's brightness up to max. Carmichael freezes for a second. And then walks up to the mannequin saying something about how's the nausea, Cameron? Are you feeling better, Cameron.

"Hold it right there!" I shout.

He turns around and sees the blindingly bright light attached to the camera, "I can explain" he says.

"I'd love to hear it, F#kwad. Have I got your attention now, you perverted F#k?"

He doesn't say anything. His eyes are saucers. I continue, "You thought that dummy was one of your students didn't you?"

He stammers something forgettable.

"Then why the F#k did you call it Cameron?" I say in a quiet, and emphatic tone that conceals only some of my anger. "Why did you drop your drawers?" I switch tones to taunting. "Were you excited about having a real story for your chat room buddies tonight?"

He stammers a denial but I cut him off, "Don't You Dare Lie to Me!! I know about TinyTony42 in Des Moines and Partysnake in Chicago and SweetJiminy in Key West and all the rest of your sick little band." I name off five or six more of them just so he knows that I know.

"How long have you been trying to seduce your students and your wife's cheerleaders?!" I bark the question.

"F-f-five years," he stutters, "but I swear to St. Jude that I've never gone farther than just kissing and touching."

"What about the threats of failing grades and getting thrown out of sports and cheer squads!?" I bark another question.

He made an 'eek' sound, rather like a mouse and I hear a sound like rain drops on a tile roof as his bladder empties. "Alright, Alright. I admit it." He holds up his hands. And then he lays out the whole sordid business for the camera, starting with five years ago.

I let him go through the first six or seven girls. And then I interrupted him. "Alright you miserable F#k!! Were you with Jordan Cowan!?" I keep my volume low and increase the amount of anger in it.

He stammers incoherently.

I step closer shoving the light into his face, "Did you or did you not kiss Jordan Cowan in the Janitors' closet on a Wednesday afternoon in August during football camp?" I guess the day.

Evidently I had enough right because he said, "Yes," weakly. And then details began spilling out about Jordan, too.

I cut him off after I thought I had way more than I needed, hoping it might actually be enough. "Alright F#kbag. Here's what you're going to do!" I shouted this too loudly for the room but not so loudly that it would be heard out in the hallway. Then I spoke in firm and menacing tone, "You're going to check yourself into a psychiatric clinic and try to get over whatever it is that makes you seduce teenage girls. And if you ever, ever sexually harass or assault another living soul, you won't have to worry about your career or jail or your marriage. Oh yes, I will give this tape to your Superintendent of Schools, the Chief of Police and your wife. But Marty – you don't mind if call you Marty, do you – I swear to Christ that I will find you and castrate you. With a table knife. Do you get me? I'm going to cut off your cajones and hand them to you in a specimen jar!!"

And then I flipped on the overhead lights and darted out, keeping the camera light trained on him. Leaving Martin K in the examining room, standing in his own excrement, I collected Cameron in the outer office. I put an arm around her protectively and shut off the camera on the way out the door of the Nurse's Office.


	8. Zen Moments and Justice

We quickly scampered back to the Carmichael's room and collected the folder of essays. By the time we made it out to the bus stop, my knees were shaking. We stood there holding each other still in the intensity of the moment. Cameron looks up at me and says softly, "You did all that for me?"

I consider a moment, and answer softly, "For you and Jordan and all the other girls. Maybe there won't be any more."

"I meant the bit with the mannequin and Sarah's bikini." Cameron smiles; the smile doesn't quite make it all the way to her eyes, but it still looks real to me. And then it does reach her eyes.

I crane my neck back a bit so that I could look into her eyes. She seems so small and frail. No one would guess that before Monday, she and I would go toe to toe with an 800 Series and win. "Oh, year, definitely." I touched her lips with the index finger of my right hand. "No one's first kiss should be embarrassing, humiliating and degrading."

"Not even a Machine-girl?" She asks.

"Not even a Machine-girl." I answer, believing myself, hoping its true, hoping Cameron believes me. I continue trying to reassure myself as much as her, "No one should have to endure what Jordan and those other girls did, not even a Machine-girl."

"You treat me like I'm a person." Cameron whispers in my ear. Then she leans back, still holding me, holding her, and flashes me the thousand watt smile. She pulls herself close again and whispers once more, "Sarah treats me like a tool."

"Well," I look into her eyes again and she holds my gaze, "I spend a lot more time with you in public social situations."

"No, no," she leans back and looks into my eyes, "even on the missions in the resistance house and at your Mom's place when no one else is there, you treat me like a person there, too."

"It's about respect." I say. Which is true as far as it goes. "Regardless of whether we are based on carbon, or silicon we deserve equal respect and consideration." I do feel that way.

"Bob Balaban as Dr. Chandra in the movie '2010: the Year We Make Contact,' Cameron attributes my quite again. Then she continues, "Yes. I agree with that," in a flat tone. "But John," now she puts some gentle feeling into her speech, "there's more than just that. Isn't there?" I pull us close. "You need to say it out loud. So I can hear it."

We stand there still holding each other. I'm starting to feel self-conscious, but this has some how morphed from the shocking and confrontational thing with Carmichael into something tender just between Cameron and me. That time of confrontation ended and one of those perfect moments has begun. Somehow I know to let it last until it's over. "I see you as the person you can become, if I just help you along. My mother only sees the killing-machine she thinks you were before you came to us. But me," I lean toward her ear and whisper conspiratorially, "I'm not convinced you were ever a garden-variety, off the shelf Terminator."

"Told you I was special," she sniffles and looks up into my face. Her eyes are leaking.

"You weren't kidding. You can cry." I say with a mix of astonishment and tenderness.

"What's this stuff in my nose?" She wipes it on her arm warmer.

"I forget the real word for it, but most teenagers call it snot." We start to lean back from each other.

She twists her face around as though she's processing something. Then we ask each other if we're okay and step apart. Her hand lingers in mine several beats longer than it needs to. And then the moment is over. We smile at each other. God I wish I could have been this cool with other girls. I mean real girls. Achh. I don't know what I mean.

The city bus comes. We get on the city bus. I have to get the camera back to Circuit City for a refund. I can barely afford the data stick with the recording of Carmichael on it.

I pull out my lap top and my interview notes and try to start writing Jordan's article. I borrow some of the energy from that perfect moment with Cameron to fuel the article. I want the memorial to be a universal perfect moment for everyone who reads it.

While I'm working Cameron gets a text message. "It's from Sarah. She's going to work a double today."

"She must not want to talk to either of us about burning that Andy-guy's chess computer." I say without looking up from my writing.

"It would be simpler if we just killed him." Cameron says.

"Yeah, but we gave a scum like Carmichael a chance to redeem himself. So a nice guy like Andy should get at least that much."

"You gave it to Carmichael. I wanted to kill him, too."

"Sometimes, you can turn an enemy into an ally." I say still writing

"Is that what you're doing with me?" she sounds so earnest.

I take Cameron's hand and look up from my writing. "Yeah." I look sad for a moment, "but that's only the beginning. Sometimes an ally will become a friend." I look at her with a mixture of sadness and hope. Then I look away. I start to let go of her hand, but she holds on to mine gently a few beats longer than necessary. God I hope, I'm not wrong about Cameron. If she turns out to be just a soulless Machine, then I am the stupidest, most pathetic guy on the planet.

She squeezes my hand and puts it up on my chest. "You're not." She slowly lets go of my hand and holds my eyes as she moves away so that she can lean into my space and somehow as I look into her eyes I see…what do I see?

I table that thought and hope that I didn't say out loud what I just thought about myself before that, "I'm not what?" I ask her trying to act innocent.

"I remember that look from the future," Cameron begins with little emotion. But as she speaks she puts more and more feeling and emphasis into her words. "You get that look before risky, daring Missions, where you risk nearly everything. But only your top people ever see it. And your daring, desperate plans being executed by highly motivated people who believe in themselves because you believed in them first…They do the impossible." Now somehow she's the one trying to guide me, trying to somehow help me become the man she remembers. "You aren't stupid or pathetic, not then, not now. And I…" She starts to say something else. But the words get caught in her throat.

I wait a beat. Two beats. "Does that mean you're one of my top people in the future?" I ask daring to hope against hope.

"Maybe. Or maybe it just means that I can see through walls." I'm looking at her but my eyes are closed and, I swear, I can hear the warmth and the smile in her voice. Then she jerks away and I open my eyes to see her looking around "We just missed our stop." Another Zen moment over? We reach for the bell cord together, holding each other's eyes. I know I'm hoping for the same electric feeling as before. I think I see that in her face, too. Our hands touch. The bell goes ding. And then the moment ends.

Later at the Cowans' house, I show them the article. It's beautiful and perfect. Just like the moments I shared with Cameron while I was writing it. It leaves them feeling warm, and just bit sad for the promising life, extinguished before its time.

"This is genius, Mr. Baum," says Jordan's dad.

"I love it," says her mom.

"How did you do this, capture who she was to each person and sum up all the lost potential, yet still leave us with a feeling of wonder and hope?" Jordan's dad forms the question slowly pouring emotion into each syllable. He's reaching for something.

"I … don' –" I'm searching for the words.

Cameron fills in for me complete deadpan, "He wrote it on his laptop on the city bus."

"I had help." I look at Cameron and smile. "I had a lot of help."

Mrs. Cowan shows Cameron out and I stay back with Mr. Cowan for just a moment. I hold up the data stick from the camera. "I have a copy of this on my computer. Cameron and I found the guy who was mistreating your daughter. If you want justice, you can use this video to get it."

"Why are you giving the video stick to me?" Mr. Cowan asks

"Mr. Cowan, I'm just a high school student. That is way too big for me. Watch the video. It's uncut and unedited. Then do what you think is just."

As we wait for the bus, I ask Cameron, "If you spent so much time with me and my team in the future, why are just now learning how not be clunky and awkward?"

"I can't tell you that yet, John." She looks up at me and puts on finger on my lips. "But I will tell you when I can."


	9. Case of the ThreeEyed Man

Disclaimer: I own some of the plot points but the characters and situations belong others.

The Case of the Three-eyed Man

"Maybe, I'll just sit Andy down and tell him everything," Mom told me and Cameron with a less than certain look on her face. She clearly liked him and appeared torn between our goal of preventing Skynet's formation and her desire for companionship. Out of her depth with a conflict of goals and emotions, Sarah was evidently making this up as she went along.

Less than ten minutes had passed following the close of the SoCal Invitational Computer Chess Championship. Andy Goode and his Russian business partner had barely packed up their gear and stalked off the stage bickering about whose fault it was that "The Turk" had choked and fallen for a Queen sacrifice. Mom slipped quickly out of the competition room. She told me later that she brushed against a tattooed man wearing what looked like a surplus German Army field coat. She made her way back to the competitors' lounge where she and Andy had talked earlier.

Mom found Andy on the floor with a small caliber gunshot wound to the head. He stared out through empty eyes. She quickly checked for his carotid pulse on his neck, finding none she dashed out of the room and down the corridor. That tattooed guy looked out of place and he was moving too fast anyway. She followed him in an impulsive flash of anger and vengeance.

Cameron looked at me, "There's commotion backstage," she stated flatly.

"I don't hear anything," I protested.

The Machine-girl gently illuminated the blue lights behind her eyes, "I have super hearing; remember?" She smiled.

I was already hustling down the row of chairs where Mom and I had sat to watch the end of the chess championship. I spoke quietly, "Come on, Cameron. Let's go see if Sarah needs help."

Cameron and I ducked out the back door of the competition room following in Mom's footsteps. I glanced quickly up and down the walls of the corridor and found a sign pointing to the competitors' lounge. That was probably where Mom went to talk to Andy. We dodged around people to get to it. A sickening smell of blood and feces emerged from the room. I stopped. Cameron pushed past me. "You probably don't want to see what's in there," she said with a faint trace of compassion in her tone.

Cameron wore one of my long sleeved denim shirts with the sleeves cuffed up. I stood there and watched her unroll the cuff to cover the palm of her right hand. Using her elbow and her covered palm she pushed open the door and stepped part way in. Her heel held the door open. "Andy Goode appears to be dead, and I'm detecting an above normal static electric charge in the room."

"And that means?" I asked.

She answered, "It means that at least one temporal field has appeared in this room recently."

"Skynet?"

"No."

I didn't bother asking how she knew. At that point it didn't matter. What mattered was that room was a crime scene and we had to get away from it post haste. Cameron and I checked each other's eyes. She spoke first, but we were both thinking it, "Police or Hotel Security will be here soon, John."

"Exactly. We'll tell them we're looking for the bathrooms. Let's get back to the Competition Room and figure this out."  
We hustled back into the room that we just left minutes before. Cameron and I sat down on the stage next to each other. We sat close enough that our legs were touching, but I didn't feel any of the electricity I had felt on the city bus with her during the Case of the Falling Girl. I guess fight or flight response was grounding that feel out. "Okay, what do we have?"

I looked at me with an expression of careful consideration but spoke with a flat tone, "We have what looks like Andy's body along with evidence of time travel."

I turned my left and over in questioning gesture, "How do you know it wasn't Skynet?"

She explained, "There was no bowl shaped dent in the floor, so what ever was left in the room fell to the floor."

I picked up on what she was saying, "And I guess there wasn't any sign that something really heavy like a 400 pound Terminator had fallen to the floor and shaken everything in the room."

"You're right." She looked surprised. Then her expression opened up and she asked with an inquisitive tone, "How did you know that?"

"Deductive reasoning." We were quiet for a moment. Each of us with our own thoughts. Then I continued, "So you're saying that the Resistance was in there."

"Exactly."

Cameron and I looked at each other's eyes again. "Are you thinking what I think you're thinking," she asked with a completely flat tone.

I chuckled, "Probably. We've got to establish a time line for Andy's death and…

Cameron finished for me, "…and figure out when that room was empty."

Hotel employees clearing off the stage asked us to move from the stage. "I will go get the security video from Hotel Security."

"How are you going to do that?" I asked with a hard look in my eyes.

"I can be persuasive," she reached for her satchel where she kept the weapons.

"Whoa, there, Annie Oakley," catching her arm I spoke in stage whisper. "Police and Security, remember? Crime Scene out in the corridor."

"I know. Don't worry," she said confidently.

I pulled my laptop out of my own bag and said, "I can be persuasive, too. Let me handle this."

We went out into the lobby and found some chairs and couches around a coffee table. I set up the lap top on the coffee table. With my password cracker programs, I crunched through the fire walls. Inside the hotel network, I hunted around for the security camera files. Eventually, I found the archive we needed and began to display the video on my screen. I started going through it from half an hour before the end of the competition so that we could eliminate the possibility of anyone left in the room before Andy returned there with his Russian partner afterward.

On a small note pad, I recorded who went into and came out of the room and at what times. I could work backward from that to determine when Andy had been alone and when the room had been empty.

As I was running the video forward and back to check my time sequence, Cameron tapped me lightly on the shoulder, "Um, John? We've got company." I looked up to see two men in coats and ties walking over toward where we were sitting. One was a black man with a mustache and a detective's badge who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. The other was a younger, intelligent looking Hispanic whose blazer had the hotel security crest on the pocket.

The detective spoke first, "Good evening, son. 'Evening, miss." He sat down on the couch across the coffee table from us. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. "I'm Sergeant Scott with Sheriff's Homicide Squad. I've got the LAPD computer crimes task force on speed dial here," the Sergeant looked me square in the eyes with an expression that wasn't menacing, just matter of fact. "As fast as you cracked the security here, I suspect you've got a record somewhere, if we just look hard enough. Now, Mr. Hernandez here wants to offer you a job improving his network security. But, if you don't cooperate…" He held up the phone in one hand and patted his hand cuffs on his hip with the other.

Hernandez spoke up, "What are you doing looking at the surveillance video from the corridor outside the room where the Detective's homicide took place?"

I started back peddling verbally, "I can explain. I was just--"

Cameron reached into her bag and I had visions of gunshots and another arrest. If I don't get lethal injection, Mom will ground me for life and make me wish I was dead. "It's okay," she said, "really. We're with the Forensics Club at our high school."

I looked over at her my face a mask, except for my eyes. I was freaking out inside and my eyes showed it.

Cameron winked at me. She pulled her hand out of her bag holding two ID cards in it. She handed them over to the Detective. "How often does the Forensics Club get to anything more than watch CSI and discuss the show?" She smiled and batted her eyelashes innocently, "We'll be glad to share everything we've got."

The Detective smiled. Everyone relaxed. I held out a fist to her and she bumped hers with mine. 'Olivaw and Bailey,' she mouthed the words to me. Heck maybe we actually had our first paying gig here for a week or two to improve their security.

A/N - Don't miss the 'future' tie-in with this chapter up in 2009 in "The End is the Beginning as the End."


End file.
